The Puffer-Fish
by lilidelafield
Summary: Illya is definitely at home, so why is he not answering? Napoleon is determined to find out!


"Illya, will you open up already?"

"No!"  
"Illya, we have work to do. Come on!"

"Go away Napoleon!"

"Look, we promised we would help April today. You can't let her down. She has only this afternoon to move all her stuff to her new apartment, so you've gotta help. Come on!"

"She'll understand."  
Napoleon knocked even louder. Why was Illya being so stubborn today? It had been his idea to get the whole move done in one afternoon by everyone helping out so that they could all leave for their next assignments on time, and April would have an apartment to return to, her current apartment having been closed down indefinitely due to her landlord having sold the building to developers. He shouted again, but this time his partner did not even deign to answer.

"Illya, is something wrong?"

"Are you still here Napoleon? Go away!"

"You're worrying me Illya, at least give me a reason. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine."

"Then open up!"

He heard a grumble and muttering, and knew that the Russian was calling him a selection of colourful names in his own language. He grinned. He could live with that, so long as his partner was all right. It always worried Napoleon when Illya started acting out of character. He heard the door being unlocked, the bolts sliding back and he guessed the alarm had been turned off, but the door did not open.

Napoleon was suddenly more concerned than ever. He pushed the door open himself and peered inside. At first he saw no one. Once he stepped inside, he glanced around the room, and spied his partner standing behind the door. He stared.

His first thought was that Illya was wearing some kind of a mask, but the words "What on earth are you wearing?" died on his lips when he realized this was no mask.

Illya's face had ballooned to twice its normal size, or more, making his eyes almost vanish amid the puffy flesh; His lips appeared to be turning yellow, and his hands looked in the process of raising large red weals.

"What the…?" Napoleon darted forward, full of alarm.

"What the hell has happened? That looks sore!"

Illya nodded miserably.

"And it is starting to itch infernally too!"

"How is your breathing affected? Is your airway swelling up?"

"Nyet."

Napoleon shook his head, his alarm not abating.

"But it might do. April will have to wait, Illya, I'm getting you into medical."

Illya looked suddenly panic stricken.

"Nyet! No! You can't make me walk through the corridors of UNCLE looking like a puffer-fish!"

"You need medical help, Illya. If this starts constricting your airway, you will choke to death. Put a paper bag over your head if you are that worried about it…or wrap your face up in a thick scarf until we arrive. But we are going. Now! No arguments."

In despair, Illya grabbed from a cupboard his motorcycle helmet and lowered the tinted visor, and with extreme reluctance, he followed Napoleon down to his car.

En route, Napoleon contacted April, who replied that she quite understood and hoped everything would be okay. He tried to question Illya about what had caused such a horrific adverse reaction, but Illya's voice was badly muffled inside his helmet and Napoleon realized he would just have to be patient.

When they arrived in headquarters, the sensation Illya caused simply by walking through the corridors beside Napoleon clad scruffily in ripped jeans, an old vest, a checked shirt swinging open and a full-faced motorcycle helmet still sitting incongruously on his head was in Napoleon's opinion going to be far more memorable than if he had just gone for the plain puffer-fish look and been done with it.

Inside medical, Illya insisted that all non-essential people were made to leave before he consented to remove his helmet. The helmet was now a much snugger fit than it was designed to be, and Doctor Peterson had to help him pull it off. The doctor stared at his patient for several seconds, as though not believing what he was seeing. Illya's face had swollen even larger, and his lips had a definite yellow outer edge, as though some child had drawn them in yellow and coloured inside the lines using pink. The doctor checked Illya's airway, and made sure he was still safe.

"You're okay for now, but it is starting to close up Mister Kuryakin. Ten minutes more and you would have been in serious trouble. Lie down."

"What is it doc?" Napoleon asked him. "An allergy?"

Peterson nodded.

"Something he has eaten. What have you eaten today for the very first time?"

"Nothing."

The doctor frowned.

"What did you have for breakfast?"

"Sausages, eggs, bacon, mushrooms, toast, tomatoes…"

"What about lunch?"

There was a pause.

"Shellfish."

"What kind?"

"All kinds…crayfish, lobster, shrimp, cockles, mussels, prawns, crab…"

The doctor blinked.

"Woah…all in one meal?"

Illya shrugged.

"I was hungry."

"Hmmm."

The doctor prepared an injection of adrenalin, and without warning, plunged the needle into his patient.

Illya yelped involuntarily, and looked up at the doctor.

"I've not had seafood for a long time, so I ordered a load in…several platters. I thought I'd try it…"

"You ate the lot? All in one go?"

Illya looked slightly sheepish.

"I was hungry…and it was so delicious…"

He sighed, and glanced at his reflection in the glass door of the cabinet beside him.

"A couple of hours later though…"

The doctor nodded.

"You've not had it for a very long time right? And then you overindulged? I would say you've developed an allergic reaction to shellfish Mister  
Kuryakin."

Illya looked anguished. Napoleon shook his head, trying keep his face straight.

"You and your appetite, Illya. I knew it would get you into trouble one day!"

Illya glanced at the doctor, advancing with a pot of cream.

"So what about the lobster dinner I ordered for tonight?"


End file.
